Post-Reichenbach One-Shot: Addiction
by TheHarlequinnCat
Summary: "Hello, Dr. Watson... Go to room 331 C. Someone requested you... No... Yes... It's an emergency. Who? ... We don't know, maybe you could identify him? ... Yes... He asked for you." "I'm on my way." The doctor replied in an all-business tone, unaware of the shock he was about to encounter...
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER: DON'T OWN ANYTHING**

**So anyways, this is a very dark oneshot. May/may not continue, depending on reviews.**

**Warnings: Drugs/Hurt/Comfort**

**Idk... Haha ENJOY!**

Sherlock held himself hostage within the confines of his flat, still in hiding after his "suicide." Currently he was alone, completely alone, in that cluttered small prison-like apartment room; He could barely afford to keep it. Mycroft, his irate older brother, had been worrying more and more frequently about him; seeing that Sherlock had completely lost his mind in his drug addictions and cut off connections from the outside world a year after his staged death. He'd fallen into a relapse of his addiction from years before, ceased to answer his phone, and locked himself in his chilly abandoned apartment to be with just his drugs. He hesitantly lifted a syringe to his arm, yearning to feel something other than anguish. His heartrate quickened as he brought it close to his vein. Sherlock craved all the drugs dreadfully. He _needed _it. His favorites just happened to be cocaine and cigarettes, as he'd certainly been around and tried his fair share of separate drugs.  
Suddenly the detective's phone buzzed off with a text. He didn't bother to even check his vibrating phone across the room, to engrossed with his drug conflict. His pupils dilated as he focused on the needle going into his arm and he sighed in relief, sweet relief. He felt better, much better. The guilt came back stronger than ever, if he could resist it once maybe recovery would be easier. He didn't want to recover. Since he'd abandoned all outside activities and shut himself within the flat, he'd truly deteriorated. His form was entirely too skinny, cheekbones jutting out more so than they should from his gaunt ghostly pale face, his ribs were concave and clearly visible, there were scars lining all up his arms from injections and so forth. His eyes were blank now, staring at the wall as he shook. Dark circles had built up underneath them, so shady they nearly matched his disheveled black curls. It gave him a skeletal appearance. He rocked back and forth, guilty about returning to the drug after he promised he wouldn't, and he fumbled with the syringe in his wildly trembling hands. The apartment was freezing, he hadn't paid the heat bill or bought food in order to obtain his drugs... He stayed like this for the longest time. He took more and more, but his condition only worsened. This. This was the breaking point. Sherlock saw the world before him go completely black...

_He dreamed. He dreamed of John. He dreamed of 221B Baker St, and of all the crimes that kept him busy. The people who kept him from relapsing on his old habits of drug abuse. They had been gone. 3 years and he was believed dead, shunned for being who he truly was. While in hiding, things had taken a turn for the worse. He dreamed he was in an empty graveyard then, the people he loved before him facing a gravestone. His friends who all thought him dead. "I miss him so much." John mouthed, tears beginning to fall down his cheeks; his expression stony. Mrs. Hudson put her wrinkled hand delicately on John's shoulder. "He's in a better place, love. Or at least, I hope he is..." Sherlock then suddenly found himself running to the edge of St. Bart's hospital, on the top of it again. John stood with his back facing Sherlock, at the edge. "JOHN!" Sherlock cried, but he was getting nowhere. He closed his eyes and kept running, he wouldn't let John jump. When he reached the edge no one was there, only a lingering feeling of hollow loneliness. He stared down at the edge, it was neverending as well. He turned, looking for where John could've gone. He stepped back and went off the edge. He was falling for real this time. Falling. Down. Crashing.  
"JOHN!"_

"John..." He murmured in his sleep. Finally coming back to consciousness. His eyes bleary as he heard a soothing woman's voice vacantly state "It's alright. You're in the hospital." Sherlock's icy blue eyes shot open; he was in the hospital. His skin was sweaty and his curls clung to his face, he was a complete wreck. Due to his drug overdose, he was admitted here. To a hospital. Far, far, away from everyone and everything. "W-w-" He began, not sure where he was going. The nurse placed a comforting hand on his leg, as she was at the edge of the hospital bed in the small bleak room "We'll call for your friend. What is his last name?" Sherlock was entirely too removed to even think. "Watson." He squeaked out, pain making his vision fuzzy. Everything had been spinning the night before, everything was hazy, and everything was a blur. His head pounded and his body ached, he felt as empty as he looked. Sherlock was attached to many breathing machines and IVs. "Don't worry, everything is okay. He'll come." The nurse attempted to reassure her traumatized patient.  
"No." He breathed.  
"No?" She was clearly confused.  
"He won't." Sherlock then felt his body convulse, he felt emotions he'd suppressed for years brew within the pit of his stomach and overtake his body. He curled up and began to cry powerfully, rocking back and forth in a state of absolute misery.

...

She'd been forced to sedate the grieving junkie, who was a complete wreck. It was for the best that he slept, he'd be in the throws of drug-cravings soon enough; and rehab was necessary with this one. The woman watched him solemnly, she'd never been so compelled by a patient. He must've been in that state for quite some time, his body was about ready to shut down. Thank God for landlords going to request rent, or this man would've died. He lay entangled in the flimsy white sheets, a few tears still on his pale sullen face. He was entirely skeletal, so frail that she assumed he weighed less than her. There were many scars up and down his arms, clearly he'd been an addict in previous years and for quite some time recently. The nurse sighed wearily, calling someone she knew could help.  
"Hello, Dr. Watson... Go to room 331 C. Someone requested you... No... Yes... It's an emergency. Who? ... We don't know, maybe you could identify him? ... Yes... He asked for you."  
"I'm on my way." The doctor replied in an all-business tone, unaware of the shock he was about to encounter...

..  
.

**So what did you think? :D**


	2. Chapter 2

**I'm not sure if I will continue this... It may be better off as a oneshot :P Idk, I wrote a second chapter anyways because so many people followed it ^_^" but I need MORE REVIEWS! XD Pardon the bad grammar and such, this was a challenging RPing prompt I tried to give people that no one could handle. I'm not sure if I'm doing the idea any justice anyways, everything feels rushed and awkward to me. :T It might just be me; Idk. Disclaimer: I own nothing :C**

When Dr. Watson was informed of this he leisurely made his way to room 331 C. No patients specifically asked for him unless they knew him from prior hospital experience, this man was unidentified and just arrived after a drug overdose. Possibly a suicide attempt, the patient wouldn't be awake and functioning correctly for some time depending on what they'd had to give him and how bad his dose was. John sighed, this day had been mundane and average; he'd fallen into a nice routine. The most exciting thing in his life was when he was on-call at night and had to save lives in the ER. Dr. John reached the hallway, waving in a friendly manner to the receptionist.

"Hello, John. What are you doing up here?" The large African American woman, named Tricia Banker, asked.

He laughed and replied to her "A patient requested me."

"Was it the newbie? He almost died."

John cringed, he never liked when patients died here. Sure, he'd seen more than enough death to be okay with it; but he couldn't shake the feeling of death after Sherlock's suicide. When Dr. Watson entered the hospital room the entire world seemed to stand still. Nurse Clara, the anxious woman who had been informed to call the doctor to the room of 331C, stood awkwardly at the entrance; her eyes darting back and forth. She saw the doctor's face get very pale, the blood seeming to drain completely from him as he stared what could've passed for a corpse in the bed. "John-" She started, feeling as though she were waiting in the shadows for something to happen, as if she were out of place and not meant to be in this scene. Clara never called John by his first name, but this was serious. The doctor swallowed and said in a trembling tone "P-please.. Go... Get out of h-here Cl-lara."

"As you wish, Watson. Are you sure you're alright?"

"I'll be fine, just leave me." Before leaving the room Clara turned and asked, true curiosity filling her voice "What's his name?" She could tell that this was someone from the doctor's past, if not he wouldn't react like this.

"Sherlock." John breathed in, a mixture of sadness and happiness filling him. "Sherlock Holmes." With those haunting words lingering within the air, the door shut and Nurse Clara was gone. The narrow Asian-American woman was very unnerved by Dr. John Watson's reaction, she'd never seen him so choked up and near tears. She'd also heard of Sherlock Holmes while she was in medical school, as she was a new intern here. He was _supposed_ to be _dead_.

Normally, John Watson would've lunged at Sherlock and punched him with all his might yelling curses and asking for an explanation. That's how it'd always played out in his head; He'd hit Sherlock then pull him into the tightest embrace. They'd hug and shed a few tears, then turn around and return home to tell Mrs. Hudson the good news. That was what was meant to happen. Instead, he found himself staring wide-eyed and terrified at what appeared to be the shell of Sherlock Holmes. His skin was sickly and grayish, lips tinted a bluish pink, his cheekbones stuck far out from his gaunt face, his closed eyes were dark and sunken. The man was completely destroyed. His head seemed slightly oversized because of how thin his frame was. His frail stick-like body. There were drying tears resting upon Sherlock's colorless cheeks, and sweat on his upper brow. It was bizarre for John to see his friend in the clutches of addiction and at death's doorstep. A respiratory machine was attached to the man, giving him labored breathing, a heart monitor, and a few IVs. He really had almost died. He really had almost lost the man he thought he'd lost three years prior to this day. Sherlock's eyes shifted quickly from under his eyelids. A dream? No, a nightmare. Uncharacteristically human.

_Empty chairs scattered on the floor in a closed restaurant. Angelo's Restaurant, a common place he went with John. A place they'd meet no more. Then he saw the corpses of his friends. Greg Lestrade lay lifeless next to Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, and John Watson. He never believed he'd care until he saw those people deceased. "Oh, my friends! Please... Forgive me!" Sherlock yelled, running towards them. He knew it was futile, he'd never reach them. It'd be just like his previous dreams, where he tried to save people; and failed. His friends? His. Friends. Moriarty stood over the bodies like the devil himself, grinning with a gun in his hand. "If you'd jumped they'd be alive. Tsk, tsk, tsk. You should've known better than to try and fool me." Sherlock wanted to scream, but no sound came from him. He was compressed, it felt as though his body was imploding in on itself. Phantom faces followed him as he turned and ran, they asked why Sherlock hadn't saved them. But he had! He had! Then he felt the world whirl, everything blurring in front of him. He was then in a completely black room. Empty. Black. Cage. He saw his shadow grinding up drugs, injecting, inhaling, smoking, and all other ways. The shadow turned and then dropped the drugs, all of them breaking and pouring on the black floor before disappearing completely. "No! Don't do that! I NEED THAT! NO! NO!" He saw the skeletal shadow then drift away. "Please! NO! COME BACK!" Then those ghosts of his old life returned. His parents, his brother, his friends. The anguish filled him, he didn't know how to handle anything anymore. He'd lost control completely. Everything he was... It was all dead and gone now. He was burning. Like Moriarty said. He was burning. Someone lit the flame and it slowly boiled over until it was too late. "Save me." He reached into the fiery darkness, and no one was there. No one._

Sherlock's body was still quivering, just as it had been when he'd fallen into his slumber. He squeezed his eyes, only longing for the nightmare to end at last. The pain didn't vanish, it would remain. The paper-thin sheets on his sickly frame, needles jabbed into his veins, the nostalgic aroma of sanitizing disinfectant filling the air; it all screamed to him that he was in the hospital. He moaned softly and turned his head to the left, then to the right, all very slowly and methodically. He glanced down and around him, the world all a blur. He tried to focus his vision on the figure before him.

John watched Sherlock's eyes flutter open, he was dazed from the drugs; probably coming down from the intense high from the overdose, and definitely out of it from the medicine that had sedated him during his panic attack and the near-mental-breakdown Clara told him about. John stood there, his back rigid and his hands shaking. He was weary, he'd seen too much, and he'd felt much hurt. But _this_ changed everything, Sherlock was off far worse than he had been. In his intense loneliness he had almost jumped off St. Bart's hospital, but was stopped by Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade. He'd never turned to drugs, he'd gotten into alcohol; but Harry was a constant reminder that he shouldn't get carried away. So he refused to let himself spiral too far downward. He hadn't turned to heroin, or cocaine, or anything of that sort; as the consulting detective had. He knew Sherlock had used drugs as recreation, but he must've really gotten hooked on them again and started using them to ale his boredom and replace his feelings of sorrow. "Sherlock." John started, but that was as far as he got. Their eyes met briefly.

Empty, broken, blank, and thoughtless.

He never thought he'd see any of those within the old Sherlock, an arrogant and exceedingly intelligent man who could rise over any problem and overcome all odds to be the winner. Now he was like a broken toy, useless and cast out. John couldn't even function, he couldn't register anything that was going on. He just stared into those vacant icy blue eyes. They did not speak, no one said a word. He'd never seen anyone he was close with in this state. Sherlock's expression was stoic, completely expressionless. His mouth was slightly agape, like a fish out of water. John felt the tears well in his eyes, he didn't know what to do. What could he do? His friend had nearly killed himself with drugs and he'd been powerless to stop it. Even now, he wasn't as stable as he should be.

"Sherlock." He said again, firmer and more assured. The man was really before him. "Please. Answer me." John felt something hot and wet streaming down his face. Tears. He was crying, and he didn't even realize it. "Sherlock, please." He whispered, pulling his feet towards the bed. Sherlock's gaze stayed on him, he was shaking even though the room was not cold. He saw Sherlock's breathing increase rapidly, going just about as fast as John's heartrate. "Please." John begged, not sure where he was going with this. It all seemed surreal and unnatural; he was witnessing his friend's demise. There was no way this was really happening, then he lay his hand upon Sherlock's; electricity is what it felt like. His friend. Was there. He was there, in the flesh. He wasn't a hallucination and this wasn't a dream. They just watched each other, unsure of how to handle the situation.

"John..." Sherlock wheezed out in a uncharacteristically high tone, as his voice was naturally low. "John. I'm so sorry." He stammered before feeling tremors take hold of his body again, he couldn't handle this any longer. He needed his drugs to calm him, he needed some sort of relief. He was fidgety, already feeling paranoid and anxious and hating the slightest withdrawal. He needed to be away from all this pain. "I-I-.." John shushed him, resting his hand on the bony crevices of Sherlock's cheek. Nothing needed to be spoken, it was all self-explanatory.

"Oh... Oh how I wish I could just take it all away." John mused in a gentle voice, he felt as though the other would break. He licked his lower lip and closed his eyes, letting the tears flow freely. "I wish you didn't have to endure all of this." It should've been the other way around. Sherlock should've been comforting John, but he'd managed to bottle up those angry feelings and focus on the task before him; Keeping Sherlock Holmes alive.

...

"I need them." Sherlock whispered hoarsely. John's head snapped up, he'd been in the room for an hour or so; telling Nurse Clara and Doctor Roberts to take his shifts. He was on their good sides anyways, and they both owed him for the times he'd covered for them. "You need what, Sherlock?" John asked tenderly in reply, not touching Sherlock. Last time he'd seen the man flinch and pull away from him. He was showing symptoms of drug-abuse and withdrawal, even though it'd been such a short amount of time."The drugs. I need them. I need them back." Sherlock murmured. John's eyes widened. "No. No you don't need them, what you need is help." The consulting detective stared at him in utter confusion. Help? What help? He needed no such thing. He opened his mouth to speak, but instead closed it and cast his eyes downward. He knew it was true. He needed... He absolutely NEEDED help.

"They're going to take you away to a rehab center in 3 days time." John stated, trying not to show his emotion. "I may not be able to see you until you're better." Sherlock's life seemed to flash before his eyes, he was horrified. Getting "better" could take months! Maybe even _years_! He'd just gotten John back, someone back to make life livable again. He'd gotten hope back. "No." Was all he could squeak out.

"Sherlock. Please don't-" John was worried, he attempted to soothe his friend.

"NO!" He yelled, clutching the sheets and screwing his face up like a crumpled piece of paper. Then he brought his knees up to his face and curled into the fetal position; sitting up. He rocked himself, held himself, his mind was going too fast; he felt too real and too down without the high. He was shattered like a mirror that'd fallen onto the floor, and no one would be there to pick up the pieces. John then wrapped his arms around the living bag of bones before him, the broken hollow shell of Sherlock Holmes. He was deeply hurt as he felt how bony Sherlock's body was, he could feel the bumps of his spine, the curves of his ribcage, and the general weakness Sherlock possessed. "It's going to be alright. Shh... Sh.." he felt hot wet tears on his uniform, Sherlock was bawling like he was but a child again. John was careful to avoid the many lines and machines going in and out of Sherlock, maneuvering his arms around them. He just held Sherlock until he had fallen back asleep, which took hours and hours of staying in that comforting position. John had closed his eyes, fighting the urge to cry again; he needed to be strong... For Sherlock.

_tick, tick, tick..._

John Watson is gone. He's left Sherlock's room to do his job when the detective had fallen into sleep.

Alone.

...

..

.

Sherlock wept openly once again, at the end of the day he was a kid at heart. He couldn't handle the things around him, he felt powerless. He wanted to tear out the IVs and jump out the window to just end it all. But he didn't, he knew John would return. He saw the glimmer of hope in the doctor's eyes. He felt the worst burden within his heart, his entire body shaking as he fought the urge to scream and tear at his own skin. The itch was uncontrollable, and he had nothing to soothe his desire. He needed the drugs. He needed. NEEDED. _NEEDED_. His mind hollered, shrieked, to him. He rocked and shook and pulled at his hair, heart pounding out of his chest, his fingers twitched and his eyes were full of tears. He held himself and sobbed, as if he were but a baby. He gave up entirely. He lay in bed and drifted into a light daydream. He was exhausted, and could barely keep count of the nurses going in and out of his room to check on him and adjust his IVs and so forth. They were to take him off breathing support, he didn't need it any more. A nurse brought him from his inner thoughts, doing something with the IV in his arm. "You almost lost your arm, Mr. Holmes, I wouldn't risk ever doing drugs again." He couldn't quite see her face; he didn't want to. Sherlock just looked away in shame, the woman sighed heavily and left the room. She knew it was out of place to begin to tell the man what he'd almost brought upon himself. Death, that's what he was bringing himself to. He closed his eyes and let sleep overcome him. A dreamless sleep.

...

When Sherlock awoke his phone and laptop were on a table beside the hospital bed, along with a little white bakery box. It was day, the curtains of his window drawn back. There was a strong, oddly familiar, cologne in the room; the one of his brother, Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock shivered and his eyes fixated on the elder Holmes sitting on a small chair, legs crossed and umbrella in one hand. "I was worried you wouldn't awaken."The usually snobbish tone was unusually sincere and sympathetic. "I picked up your favorites from Mummy's shop." Mycroft weakly smiled, gesturing with his umbrella to the box beside the bed. "I didn't eat any either."

"Go.." Sherlock refused to look his brother in the eyes now, knowing that what he was saying was hurting his sibling. "I wish to be alone." His brother shook his head diligently "You almost died, Sherlock. I'm not leaving you."

"It's not like you cared anyways." Mycroft was hurt and offended by this.

"Is that what you really think? Sherlock I just want you to be safe." Sherlock's brows furrowed at this. He knew his brother had good intentions, but they usually had bad outcomes. "I think it'd help you if you wrote a blog about your recovery." He then suggested, knowing that their confrontation would be cut short. He just knew it.

"Go."

Mycroft obeyed, leaving the room. He eyed his laptop. A blog?


	3. Chapter 3

**Blog Entry #1:**

_I feel like an idiot for writing this, but they told me it may help. I just started rehab a week ago, but it's not working. Except I can say I tried, and they can't say I didn't. I don't need to be forgiven. I know you're reading this John, and I'm telling you that you don't have to forgive me. I'm dying inside. It's a hard thing to explain. I used to be a stone statue, unmoved by everything; but I see much clearer now. It didn't come easily, but the sense was knocked into me. At least I know who is in the mirror now. It's the ghost of Sherlock Holmes. I'll regret writing this, but I know you're worried John. This is the only way I can communicate with you for now. This place is driving me crazy. It's too quiet, it's too mundane, it's too controlled. I hate it. I'm sorry, John. If I can stay clean I'll be out in a few weeks. Please visit soon._

_-SH_

John closed his laptop solemnly, he had been informed of Sherlock's new blog; which seemed to only be monitored by him and Mycroft. It was like a little secret way of Sherlock speaking to him during his confinement at the facility. Those days he was with Sherlock in the hospital were filled with stress, Sherlock sleeping, and the beginning of withdrawal symptoms... Looking back on it was painful.

The consulting detective had gotten out of control, as Sherlock couldn't handle withdrawal and got out of the hospital bed; he'd gone to find his stash. It had been in a secret pocket of his trenchcoat. Once Sherlock got hold of it and started shooting it up his arms like there was no tomorrow he was interrupted by John and a few other doctors. John could hear everything once again, the scene played out clearly in his mind."I NEED IT! I NEED IT!" Sherlock had been screaming, as if he were a two-year old again throwing a temper tantrum. John knew that wasn't _his_ Sherlock. His Sherlock was logical, rational, and clever; this one was overcome completely by addiction and on the verge of insanity. Literally, a hollow shell of what he once was. The worst part was pulling the syringe away from him and screaming at him, trying to put some sense into him. "STOP IT! JUST STOP!" The thing that broke John's heart was seeing the detective be forcibly restrained and sedated, being dragged to his knees as he yelled nonsense and tried to fight back. All over _his_ _drugs_. "Give them BACK! They're MINE! I _NEED_ THEM" He had pitifully reached out for the mound of shattered glass, even though by then everyone knew it was hopeless. He'd stopped struggling, and it wasn't just the sedative doing that, it was meeting John's horrified expression. Then followed their final meeting, before Sherlock went to rehab. He was in a hospital bed, restrained, with IVs plugged into him and a heart-monitor going. He had been put onto a breathing assistant, because the doctors hadn't known how much he'd taken. Sherlock was empty, staring at a fake plastic potted plant beside him. He forced himself to meet John's gaze. "I'm done, John." He whispered, eyes tracing the hideous track marks all up his arms. "I'm worn out, I can't go on anymore." Dr. Watson's eyes widened, it sounded as though Sherlock wanted to kill himself. He watched his friend crumble and burn, literally seeing all hope leave his face. Fatigued. Exhausted. "They're taking you away in a few minutes." Sherlock was silent, only blinking a few times. "Please, just... Get better." The doctor left the room as two large men dressed in white entered. He couldn't help but feeling that he could just collapse any moment. He could blow through the ceiling. Sherlock mumbled "I'm sorry I can't be who you want, John... But I'll try. I promise." As he passed John. With those few final words he was led out of the hospital and to a rehab center. The feather-light Sherlock Holmes had never felt so heavy to himself, his feet dragged and his head reeled. He was on his way to a living hell, a prison, and his worst nightmare.

Sherlock lay awake in bed, thoughts entering and leaving his mind; flowing through with ease. He couldn't stop the thoughts, the cravings, the desires, and the sadness welling within him. He finally saw himself for the first time in a long time... He saw himself with clarity in the mirror. He saw what he was now, and realized how bad things had gotten.

_That there, that's not me_  
_I go where I please_  
_I walk through walls_  
_I float down the Liffey_

_I'm not here_  
_This isn't happening_  
_I'm not here, I'm not here_

Sunken pale eyes, bruised and hollow. They were no longer bold and confident, they were empty and sad. His posture was hunched, as if there were a heavy chain around his neck pulling him to the ground. Wild curly black hair sticking out in all directions, no longer in place and well-kept. He was bony, and he could count nearly all of his ribs. His arms were scarred and hideous, no longer toned and strong as they were three years ago.

_What happened to me?_

...

..

.

**It's a short one, guys. I remembered people ARE following this story and wondered if anyone really cared to see the outcome of some things ^_^ I think this MAY BE WHERE I STOP IT. I just didn't like how I ended it on the previous one, that cliffhanger was dreadful. IDK; Y'all tell me, continue this one or no? **


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